Forgiveness Is Not Just For The Living To Give
by Peeta Melark
Summary: Sam Winchester died four years ago, caught in the crossfire of an armed robbery. Then the Rising happened, and Sam rose from the grave with thousands of other PDS sufferers. Now he is going home to his brother, Dean. What he wants is forgiveness. Forgiveness is the one thing he thinks he can't have. You don't have to know "In The Flesh" to get this. It's more AU than crossover.
1. Chapter 1

Darkness. Crushing, panic inducing, suffocating darkness. The young man in the ground opened his eyes to that. For a moment, he lay still, breathing heavily in the enclosed space, though it would not do much of anything for him anymore. When he reached, trying to see his hand, his fingers touched rough, grainy wood. There was hope yet. He pounded and punched until he broke through. Dirt poured through the hole in the wood and the ruined fabric. It filled his mouth and eyes, bitter and dry. With a cry, the young man struggled towards the surface… if there _was_ a surface.

When he broke through, the night was cool and dark. A strange greyish light washed over everything, as if the moon had somehow frozen at its brightest. Somewhere in the distance, a bell tolled midnight. The sound made the young man jump in the empty night, though he did not feel the fright. It was merely an instinct to turn towards the noise, to survive. And that was when he saw it: a tombstone with a familiar name.

_Sam Winchester  
>Carry on my wayward son<br>There'll be peace when you are done  
>Lay your weary head to rest<br>Don't you cry no more_

Sam. That was the young man's name. Sam Winchester. His name was Sam Winchester. Sam Winchester. Sam Winchester. It echoed in his head like a chant, driving him on through the night. Deep in his soul, he felt a hunger that could not be stopped. He knew he would have to try to end it, and he knew the means would not be pretty, but he didn't care. He couldn't think. He couldn't think past the here, the now, and the hunger. So he set off into the night, rabid and alone.

~O~O~O~O~

"Gah!" Sam's body jerked involuntarily as the medication took effect. He lashed out, his eyes open and unfocused. He could see nothing but the white of the walls, and the white of the doctors' coats. They gripped his arms and held him down, talking in soft, soothing voices.

"Sam. Come back to us, Sam. It's just a memory. You're going to be all right. It's not real right now. It's not real here. Come back, Sam, come back."

Sam groaned. "They're getting worse."

"How are you feeling?"

"Awful," Sam admitted. "Guilty. I _killed_ people."

The doctor smiled. "Good, Sam. You're ready."

Sam's heart would have jolted had it been beating. "Ready?" he asked. "Ready for what?"

"To see your family. You're going back home, Sammy."

Now Sam panicked. Home? He couldn't go _home_! He couldn't let his brother see him like this. Forget his brother, he couldn't let his _dad _see him like this! John Winchester would flip. He would flip and throw Sam out onto the streets, and then he wouldn't be able to administer his daily dose of Neurotryptaline, and he'd go rabid before long! He couldn't let that happen. He couldn't hurt anyone else.

"You can't send me home," he said, a little louder and more desperate than he'd meant to. "My dad, he'll never let me back."

The doctor gave a sympathetic sigh. "Sam… Your father died in the year following the rising. He fought bravely, I'm told, but…"

"It wasn't enough."

"Next," said the second doctor, and Sam was ushered out of the room.

Group therapy went differently that day. Instead of his usual group, Sam was with a group of other people going home. Instead of his usual therapist, he found himself talking to a woman named Jodie, who told them about her PDS son.

"How are you feeling, Sam?" she asked. Sam shrugged.

"Awful," he said for the millionth time. "I'm not ready."

One of the other PDS sufferers, a girl named Jo, smiled sympathetically. "I'm going home, too, she said. I mean, we all are. But it feels different to be going home. I haven't seem my mother in… four years. I've missed her so much. Do you think… Do you think I could…"

"What is it, Joanna?" asked the therapist—Dr. Barnes. "Could you what?"

Jo sighed, and Sam thought she might have been crying. "Do you think I could ask them to forgive me? I burned down the Roadhouse, I _bit _Ash, I…"

The rest of the group, who had been silent until now, broke into nervous chatter, each one sharing the things their family could not accept them back for. Kate had ripped out her neighbor's heart, Castiel had gouged out someone's eyes before eating their brains, and Lucifer had tried to kill his brother, Gabriel. How could any of them ever be forgiven?

"Well, you could start by asking."

Silence. Stunned silence. Sam and a few others leaned forward, asking how that could be possible. _Ask_ for forgiveness? How could they do that? Wouldn't that be like asking for something they could never have? Would their families even let them get two words out? Would anyone listen to a PDS sufferer?

"You're people," Dr. Barnes told them. "You're not animals. Not anymore. I don't believe you ever were. If you believe you can be redeemed, then it's only a matter of time before the rest of the world sees that, too."

Sam's insides went numb. Could that be true? Of course, he hadn't meant to hurt anyone, and he hadn't had any clue what he was doing. He had been rabid then. He wasn't now. He wasn't an animal anymore. He had never been an animal. Could that possibly be true? If it was, then what did it mean to him… to Sam Winchester? What could that possibly mean to a twenty-five-year-old PDS sufferer who had taken a bullet for a stranger because he didn't care to live anymore? Was this a chance to set things right, or was it a way of pulling him out of a vaguely heroic end? Either way, he couldn't change it. Not anymore.

"My brother," he said, glancing shyly at Jo and Lucifer. "He's picking me up tomorrow. He's going to be mad… I mean, he _knows_ I did it on purpose."

"Did what on purpose, Sam?"

"The night Jessica died… I was broken. I tried to keep going for a few years, but I just couldn't. And then Madison… She was shot in our apartment, and I… I went for a walk, and I saw a man about to get shot, too, so I jumped in the way. I would've hit his head… but it got me in the heart. For a moment, I thought I'd live, and then it went dark."

Jo gasped, "Oh, Sam!" and put her hands to her silent heart. Jo had died in a rabid dog attack. It had ripped through her clothes, skin, and muscle like nothing and she had bled to death on the floor of a convenience store. The wounds were stitched up, but she ran her fingers across her abdomen whenever she spoke, as if the concealed stitches reminded her of who and what she was.

"I tried to eat my brother," Lucifer offered. He had died in a fire, and the skin of his face was burned and scarred. To cover it, he wore a mask like the one in _Phantom of the Opera_. Sam thought it looked stupid, but he never said anything. Why upset Lucifer more?

"I killed my brother's friend," Sam said. "A guy named Benny. I cornered him in a market and ate his brains. I don't know… how to tell Dean. He loved Benny… He really loved Benny. They were really close, and I ruined that. They didn't even find a body, I don't think."

Castiel tried to smile. "When I gouged out that woman's eyes, I was knocked out and brought here. I remember waking up and thinking it had all been a dream, and then I saw my reflection.

Sam frowned. Looking at Castiel's face, with his cover-up and blue contacts, one could hardly tell he was dead. His cover-up had been applied by Lucifer that morning, since Castiel's hands were always shaking. He had been choked to death, and he was a nervous wreck because of it. It had also made his voice scratchy and deep, like it was hard for him to spit out the words.

"That must have been hard," said Dr. Barnes. "But you need to move past that, Castiel. You're a—"

"I'm a PDS sufferer, and what I did in my untreated state was not my fault," Castiel spat. "You've told me. But if that's true, why don't I feel any better? Why won't the guilt wash away?" His hands were, for the first time, steady.

Dr. Barnes frowned. "You know, Castiel, that guilt is not something you can just wash out like… coffee from clothes." Sam could tell she had intentionally avoided the word _blood_. "It takes time and practice to push away your guilty feelings and realize that you are not to blame. Can you try that?"

Castiel nodded, but he didn't look convinced.

"Who are you looking forward to seeing, Sam?" Dr. Barnes asked, turning her attention away from Castiel.

"Dean," Sam said. "My big brother. God, I haven't seen him in… four years."

The meeting ended soon after that, and Sam went back to his room. His roommate, a bubbly PDS sufferer named Garth, was already getting ready for bed, wiping away the layers of mousse and removing his contacts easily. Sam hadn't even _tried_ to do any of that. He would ask Garth for help in the morning, before he left. The last thing he thought of before falling asleep was the look on Jo's face as she spoke of forgiveness. He hoped he hadn't done anything too horrible to be forgiven.

**A/N: So I watched ****_In the Flesh_**** in about a week. There are only nine episodes, though, so that's not ****_too_**** fast. Anyway, I thought it would make a great Supernatural AU, so I decided to give it a try. Right now, I'm not putting it in the crossover section (since… it's not really a crossover), but I may change that if I have to. **


	2. Chapter 2

Sam woke up the next morning to the sound of Garth singing. He wasn't listening to any music, and he was way off-key and Sam was sure he'd never even _heard_ of a tune. But it was a sound he was going to miss. Garth was one of those people who made life so much more bearable, even just by being still and silent in the same room. Garth was one of those people who made everything seem like it was going to be okay someday, even if it probably wasn't.

"You ready to see your folks, Sammy?" he asked as Sam opened the door to leave. Sam gave him a nervous smile.

"Just my brother," he said. "But yeah, I am. You, Garth?"

"Just my fiancée and my cat. She's coming to pick me up later on today—my fiancée, that is. My cat isn't driving anywhere. Ain't got itself a license."

Sam laughed. "I'll miss you," he admitted. "Keep out of trouble, okay?"

"Sure thing, bro. Sure thing."

And then Sam had to leave. He couldn't stay any longer without that awful pang of loneliness setting in. Garth was his friend. Garth was his friend, and he would probably never see him again. Any self-respecting PDS sufferer wouldn't move to Lawrence, Kansas. So why was Sam going there?

Dean was in the waiting room when Sam got there. He was tense and nervous, and his arms were crossed over his chest like he was angry. When he caught sight of Sam, his eyes narrowed and then flew wide. He opened and closed his mouth, unable to speak, as if he thought his brother would disappear. Sam wondered if his heart was really breaking, or if that was just an illusion.

"Hey, Dean," he said. Dean blinked hard.

"Sammy… You look… Wow… You look good… Man, I expected… I don't know what… But you look… Wow…"

Sam tried to smile. "It's mostly the mousse and lenses… Makes me look… uh…"

"Yeah." Dean looked down at his shoes and then up at Sam.

"Are we going?"

"Yeah." Dean pulled out his car keys and led Sam out to the Impala, a jarring sight in the smoothness of the Treatment Center. Somehow it seemed rebellious, like it didn't really fit in anywhere, and it didn't really want to. Just like Dean, Sam thought. Just like Dean.

As they pulled onto the street, Sam stared out the window, drinking in every sight. He hadn't seen anything outside the Treatment Center for months, and he could hardly remember what it was like without the haze of rabid vision. He wanted to drink in _everything_, ever sight and every sound, until his eyes and ears couldn't take anymore. Then he would shut his eyes and ears and just _feel_… or remember feeling, since his nerves could no longer pick up the nuances of heat and cold. But he could pretend. He could pretend until he actually felt the leather of the car seat under his fingers, the cold of the window.

"Dean?"

"Yeah, Sammy?"

Sam hesitated. "What happened to Dad…?"

Dean was silent for a long time. Finally, he said, "Killed by a rabid."

"A rabid? You mean an… untreated PDS sufferer?"

Dean stiffened, making a series of odd squeaking sounds. "Yeah… I guess I do. An untreated… PDS sufferer. How do you feel about some pie, Sammy?"

"I don't eat." Sam felt like an ingrate. "But you can have pie if you want. I mean, since I don't eat, you could probably have pie for dinner."

Dean grunted. "Yeah. Suppose I could."

"You okay?"

"Yeah," Dean said cagily. "Yeah, I'm fine, Sammy. Just glad you're back."

He didn't sound glad, but Sam kept that opinion to himself as he stared out the window. For a while, there was nothing but grass and sky, and then the road took a sharp turn into their hometown of Lawrence, Kansas. Sam sighed, leaning his chin on his hand. Dean did not sound glad at all.

"What've I got to do?" Dean asked after a long stretch of silence.

"Huh?"

"This Neurotriptyline stuff. What do I do with it?"

"I'll show you," Sam said, relieved at the change in conversation. "When we get home, I'll show you."

When they got home, Sam sat down on the couch and pulled out his Neurotriptyline kit. Dean took it shakily and put it together slowly, following Sam's instructions perfectly. Then he held it to the hole in Sam's neck, hesitant and perhaps a bit scared. Sam shifted his weight uncomfortably and cleared his throat.

"Just, uh, put it in there and pull the trigger," he said. "And then hold me down, okay?"

Dean did, and a jolt shot through Sam's body, throwing him into another flashback. In his flashback, he ripped into the flesh of a man in his mid forties, with dark, greying hair, and a dark, greying beard. Sam tore through his skull and took his brain. _Ate_ his brain.

And then he woke up, screaming and thrashing. As soon as his eyes opened, he saw Dean scramble back, crying, "Jesus Christ!"

"It's okay! I'm okay."

"How many times do I have to watch that?"

Sam shrugged. "Every day, same time."

Dean checked his watch. "Okay, then. See you tomorrow at five-thirty, Sammy."

Sam closed his eyes, taking deep breaths to calm his nerves. With a jolt, he realized who that man was. His father. He had killed his own father. He had _killed_ his _father_. He had killed the man who had raised him and taught him everything he knew. He had killed the man his brother had most looked up to. And yet Dean still allowed him into the house, still let him sit in his favorite chair with his favorite book. Dean still wore the amulet he had given him when they were kids. After all that, Dean was still his brother.

"I'm sorry," he said. "Dean, I—"

"Stop it, Sammy." Dean's voice was rough and dry, as if he knew what Sam was going to say. "Just… don't mention it."

So Sam shut his mouth and stared at the floor, wishing it would just reach out and swallow him up. He wished he had never come back from the grave. He wished he hadn't died in the first place, or that he had died _after_ the Rising. Now that he was back, he felt all of his old feelings coming back: the sadness, the anger, and the loneliness. But he couldn't leave again. Not when Dean was being so hospitable. Not when he knew how much he had hurt his family before.

"I'm sorry, Dad," Sam murmured. "I didn't know what I was doing."

In the back of his head, he imagined someone telling him it was all right.


End file.
